


Perfect For You

by stavromulabeta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cutting, Depressed Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Illness, Parentlock, Past Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9022636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stavromulabeta/pseuds/stavromulabeta
Summary: What will happen when John discovers Sherlock's darkest secrets? Or when he finally realizes he cares for this man more than just as a friendly companion? Johnlock with a hint of Mystrade. Set before TAB, or could be considered an AU version of HLV/TAB.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever posted, so please don't be too harsh! But please do leave any criticisms or comments you may have, I'd greatly appreciate it!
> 
> This story has been my head-cannon for a very long time and I needed to get it out. Sorry for any mistakes I've made relating to drug-use, I'm not very familiar with heroin-use but I did research some things. Also, this story has not been Brit-picked or beta'd, please excuse any typos or mistakes. Let me know if you have any suggestions on things I can improve. 
> 
> Some of the things I put Sherlock through in this story are very personal to me, I've dealt with mental illness and self-harm for many years. I wanted so badly to write this from Sherlocks POV, but wasn't confident that writing the mind of Sherlock Holmes was within my capabilities.
> 
> I've written most of this fic, I have the first three chapters finished and am working on the last three plus the epilogue. I probably won't have everything finished before Season 4 comes out, so there's a chance the new episodes may effect how I end the story. 
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Self-harm and Drug-use

John was having a perfectly normal, boring day at work when he got a phone call from Mrs. Hudson. He was finishing up some paperwork and set it aside to answer his mobile. He thought it was odd, they didn't talk on the phone much.   
  
_Must be important._  
  
"Hello Mrs. Hudson, how are you?"  
  
"I'm just fine dear, but I think you need to come to Baker Street. Something's wrong with Sherlock."   
  
John sighed, he could tell from her tone that it was serious. "I'll be over tonight after work. Did something happen?"  
  
"Well, he's been smoking, and hasn't come out of his bedroom for over two days. I've tried bringing him tea and a few meals but he either doesn't say anything or yells at me to go away. Sometimes I can hear him talking to himself in there."  
  
John taps his pen on his desk with furrowed brows. He thinks for a moment.   
  
"That's not _too_ unusual, but I'll come see what's going on."  
  
"Alright dear, I'll see you later. Goodbye now."   
  
John gets back to work, trying to ignore the worry rising in him. It really wasn't too strange for Sherlock to pull something like this. When John was still his flatmate, Sherlock would go days without speaking or eating. He would sometimes lock himself in his room when he was trying to solve a particularly difficult case and would refuse to come out. John suspected something similar was going on, but Mrs. Hudson really did sound more worried than usual.   
  
He almost leaves work early, but decides to stick it out for the rest of the day. Sherlock would be fine on his own for a few more hours. 

* * *

When he finally finishes up a few last minute things, he has a quick chat with one of the nurses and then walks out of the building to catch a cab. He directs the driver to 221B and sits back to check his email on his mobile.

They pull up to the flat and John pays the cabbie, gets out, and heads for the door. He thinks about knocking, feeling a bit awkward. He decides to just let himself in with the key he keeps "forgetting" to give back to Sherlock.   
  
Once inside Mrs. Hudson opens the door to her flat and John smiles at her. She warily smiles back and approaches him for a quick hug.   
  
"It's not pretty up there, he's wrecked the place more than usual."  
  
"I'm sure he's fine, probably just in one of his moods." John responds.  
  
Mrs. Hudson looks like she's about to agree but something else crosses her face.   
  
"John, I didn't mention this earlier but he's been acting up for weeks. Barely leaving the flat, hardly playing the violin, he's had a few of his homeless friends come by too which is worrisome. Shady-looking types if you ask me."   
  
John reassures her that he'll deal with whatever it is that's going on and heads up the stairs.   
  
He opens the door to a room a hurricane must have torn through. There were sheets of paper _everywhere_ , tea cups tipped over on their sides, files thrown about, cigarette butts, books abandoned in various places, or lying around looking like they had been thrown across the room. Some books look like they had been ripped apart. He saw Sherlock's violin sitting in a corner behind a bunch of boxes, the skull was on the sofa, and there was a pile of antique-looking daggers on the kitchen table next to Sherlock's many experiments. The place really was a mess.  
  
And the _smell_. The flat reeked of cigarette smoke, rotten food, and other unpleasant things he couldn't identify. He puts his sleeve over his nose and walks the short distance to the bedroom.   
  
He knocks, not hearing a peep from inside the room. He says Sherlock's name loudly a few times, again no answer. He contemplates just going in, feeling uneasy about disrespecting his privacy. When he tries the handle he finds it locked, of course.   
  
_Damn his privacy._

John goes up to his old bedroom to look for his lock-picking kit. He's surprised to see that the room is also fairly trashed. Every other time he's visited his old room it had been kept exactly how he had left it, now it was covered in cigarette butts and ash, and the window was wide open, the wind blowing around balls of crumpled paper. He finds more daggers on the desk. Once he retrieved his kit from the desk drawer he closed the window quietly and went back to Sherlock's bedroom.   
  
After fiddling with the lock for a few minutes he hears it click and braces himself for whatever is on the other side of the door. 

The door swings open and John sees Sherlock lying is his bed, barely covered by the tangled sheets around his calves. He approaches the bed and what he sees makes him gasp audibly. His eyes widen, his body stunned into immobility. 

Sherlock is slightly shaking and looks flushed. He looks like he hasn't showered in days, his hair a greasy mess of curls. He's wearing his usual robe, t-shirt, and pajama bottoms. He must have been tossing and turning because his shirt is lifted up a few inches revealing his stomach. John sees fairly fresh wounds all across his stomach and hips, dried blood on the edge of his pajama shirt. They're obviously self-inflicted, neat rows of slashes in different healing stages. 

And the _scars_. There are so many on the small portion of skin he could see, there had to be more along his torso. And who knows where else. 

He's known Sherlock for almost five years, lived with him for nearly two, and had never seen them. Now that he thinks about it, he's never even seen Sherlock with short-sleeves. He thinks he knows why, now. 

_I'm a terrible friend, how could I not have known? I don't have much experience with the psychology side of medicine, but surely there were signs? But of course Sherlock would have hidden them well. Why did he hide them from me?_

John knew that was a stupid question. _Of course_ he had hidden this part of himself, Sherlock was the master of disguising emotion and thought it was a sin to show any sign of weakness. He still felt horrible for not knowing.

Not to mention Sherlock was also showing signs of drug-use. 

_Probably why he had his homeless buddies over._

He felt such sadness for his best friend, and guilt. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in weeks and didn't make a point of checking in on him with even a text. He'd been so distracted with the new house and the baby on the way. 

But he suddenly feels determined. He feels such protectiveness over the man and automatically propels into action.

_I'm going to fix this. I won't leave until he's done with this nonsense, no matter how long it takes._

John leaves Sherlock to search the flat. It takes a while to sort through the mess but he fills a box with blades, scalpels, syringes, pills, knives, a gun, and drugs that were in very well hidden places. He even took all his lighters and matches. He decides to text Mycroft.

**I'm going to be staying at Baker Street for at least few days, probably longer. Please have these items sent over, I am unable to leave Sherlock and probably won't be able to for a while. -JW**

He presses send and starts a new message listing things such as groceries, bandages, antiseptic, and drugs he knew that helped with detoxing. He sends that off too.

He stands there a moment, thinking about calling Mary and what he's going to say to her when his ringer goes off.

**It's all on it's way. I'll be in touch. -MH**

John almost smiles, he knew Mycroft would be reliable without asking too many questions, in fact he immediately complied and that was that. He unlocks his phone and calls Mary. 

He tells her he's sorry but there's something he has to do for Sherlock, he's gotten himself into some deep shit and he's afraid to leave him alone.

"Take as long as you need sweetheart. You're practically his only friend and you need to be there for him, it's completely understandable." 

John starts to say that he doesn't want to miss out on anything relating to her pregnancy but she cuts him off and says not to worry. John asks her to pack up some of his things and that Mycroft will send for them, Sherlock's not in any state for visitors and probably won't be for a while. 

"Of course. Let me know when I can come by or if I can help in any way. I love you, keep me updated."

"Love you too, and I will." He ends the call with a despondent goodbye. 

John sends another text to Mycroft and starts making tea. When it's done he takes the two mugs and a large class of water to Sherlock's room. He's still asleep and completely oblivious. He sets down the drinks and goes back to the living room to drag his chair into the bedroom, pulls it next to Sherlock's bed. He opens a book, sips his tea, and waits. 

* * *

After a few hours he realizes he left the box of dangerous objects on the kitchen table. He's about to get up and dispose of it when Sherlock stirs. He groans and dives deeper under the covers because of the light from the lamp and then notices he's not alone. He rolls over and John looks over his book at him curiously, momentarily forgetting the seriousness of the situation and feeling awkward to have been sitting there watching him sleep. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Go away." is all the response he gets. 

Sherlock pulls the sheet up and over his entire body, covering his face with it. John hesitates, but gets up and leans over to pull the sheet down, and sits next to him on the bed. 

He feels a sudden twinge at the thought of being in Sherlock's bed but shakes it off. He looks at his hands, avoiding eye contact.

"Sherlock" he starts, "I'm a doctor, and I'm not stupid. I've seen what you've been doing to yourself and it has to stop."

Sherlock stays silent, face smushed into a pillow and not looking at John. 

"I'm not leaving until I'm sure you're 100% better." he pauses, "Or I can call Mycroft and have him set up a stay at a rehab center. "

Sherlock throws off the sheet, and flings himself off the bed. He stumbles a bit but composes himself, looking at John with those piercing eyes of his.

"Get. Out."

John simply shakes his head and says "No." firmly. 

Sherlock walks over to the bathroom and locks himself inside.

_Why does he have to act like such a child?_

John had already searched the bathroom so he lets him be for a while. He hears the shower running and returns to the living room to try and tidy up the place. 

He's about halfway through picking up all the books when Sherlock walks out of his room fully dressed and with damp hair. He looks a little better already but this doesn't fool John, he has an idea of what Sherlock's trying to pull. 

Sherlock makes his way to the door, mumbling something about going out.

 _Like hell you will_ , John thinks as he grabs the man by his arm and spins him around to face him. Sherlock winces at the pressure on his arm and tries to pull away. John let's go and grabs him by the shoulders instead.

"I'm serious Sherlock, neither of us are going anywhere until we at least talk about this. You've been hiding things from me."

"As if you were around to notice. Who sent you? Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft? No, must have been Mrs. Hudson. I bet she called you to complain about the cigarette smoke." 

"Sherlock, she called me because she _cares_ , you arse. She was worried about you. And for good reason it turns out."

Sherlock tries to get away from him again but John keeps a firm grip on his shoulders. 

"Why are you doing this? You've obviously been doing drugs again, heroin by the looks of it. I thought you were done with that shit! And the... the cutting." He stammers, "You're going to kill yourself if you keep on with this Sherlock."

Sherlock looks away from John, and does something the army doctor has never seen him do. Sherlock has started to cry, silent tears running down his cheeks. He struggles to get away from the shorter man again, but John only holds on tighter. 

John is shocked at the display of emotion, but pulls himself together when Sherlock crumples to the floor. The man is now silently sobbing, sitting on the dirty living room floor. John kneels down and envelops him in a tight hug. 

"It's going to be okay, I promise." He says into his ear. Sherlock tries to shove him away but John isn't going to let go no matter what he says or does. 

He lets Sherlock sob into his shoulder, and resists the sudden urge to place a kiss on the side of his head. 

"Do I have to remind you again that I'm a doctor? You're going to detox at home, I'll be with you the whole time. And you're going to have to tell me how long the self-harm has been going on, why you do it, and how I can help. Please do this for me Sherlock. I..." he trails off, unsure of what he was about to say, why he wanted to say it now. But it can wait, and if Sherlock was paying attention he'd have deduced what it was anyways. 

After Sherlock has calmed down, John helps him up and off the floor. He leads him to the bedroom and forces him to drink the glass of water. Sherlock's embarrassment peeks through the cracks of his mask, but eventually he holds a stoic, blank face. 

John tells him to change and go back to bed, that he was going to clean the flat and would be back to check on him in a short while. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to sort through his emotions and Sherlock finally breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!
> 
> I hope everyone that celebrates Christmas had a wonderful one. I got everything I wanted, I got to visit with my Grandmother and childhood dog. Couldn't have asked for more!
> 
> I'm so grateful for the positive response I got after posting the first chapter. This chapter is much darker, if you are triggered easily please don't read! Take care of yourselves and let me know what you think.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Self-harm, drug-use, and attempted suicide.

_I love you._

John almost said it, but he didn't. He stopped himself from going there. Sherlock must have known what he was about to say though.  
  
_Friends say I love you to each other all the time, right?_

But John meant it more affectionately than that, and he knew it. He knew something was happening inside him that he's been trying to push down for a long time. But seeing Sherlock so vulnerable and distraught brought it all back up to the surface. He wanted to protect this man, take care of him, watch over him, and so much more. 

_What is wrong with me? I have a wonderful wife and a child on the way, why would I ruin that? And I'm straight, of course I'm straight. Always have been._

At least until Sherlock came along. 

_It doesn't matter anyways, it's too late. I've made my decisions and Sherlock remains my greatest friend, that should be enough, right?_

John tries to push away these thoughts as he prepares breakfast. He had spent most of the night cleaning up the flat and checking in on Sherlock to make sure he hadn't escaped through a window. Thankfully, the genius spent the rest of the night sleeping or hiding his shame from John under the covers. 

Sometime in the middle of the night there was a knock at the door. Mycroft's assistant, or whatever she was, was standing there with bags of food, medicine, and John's overnight bag among other things. He thanked her, handed her the box of disgusting objects, and she left without a word. John was grateful he didn't have to leave the flat to retrieve the items himself, and was surprised that Mycroft knew exactly what he likes for breakfast.

John takes both plates of food into Sherlock's room and tries to get him to sit up. He thinks Sherlock is being more quiet than usual, probably because he feels like hell and is trying to hide his withdrawal symptoms from John. 

After much encouragement, Sherlock eats a few bites of toast and washes it down with a couple sips of tea. John gives up after a while and leaves him to sulk. 

He's finishing the washing up when he hears a loud thud. He drops the dishes in the sink and rushes to the bedroom. Sherlock is lying on the floor next to his bed groaning and holding his stomach. John kneels down beside him and notices the pained look on his face and how much he is shaking. 

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"Bathroom. Now." is the response he gets. 

John practically drags him into the loo where Sherlock immediately lunges for the toilet and starts vomiting. John feels helpless and tries to rub circles into his friends back, getting a grunt and a shove from the other man in return. 

"I'm just trying to help. Is there anything I can do?"

Sherlock refuses to look at him. 

"Yes, go home. I don't need you here."

John sighs and leaves the room. "I'm not leaving, so let me know if you need anything." he says over his shoulder as he walks out. 

John tries to spend the afternoon reading but is too distracted. Sherlock is just in the other room, completely silent. It's maddening. He decides it's time to check on him again and finds him looking even worse than earlier. 

He's curled up into a ball under the comforter, shaking violently. He's sweating and so pale, more so than usual. John prepares a cool, damp rag and tries to lay it across his forehead. Sherlock moves his head away from John's hand, stares at him angrily for a moment and turns over. He mumbles something incoherent into the pillow.

"Sherlock, you really do need to stop with this nonsense. I'm not going anywhere no matter what you say."

Sherlock turns back to him, trying and failing to hold himself up. He has pure madness and hatred flashing through his eyes. 

"Leave me alone! You're only making this worse! I'm going through fucking withdrawals and you're hovering over me. I've done this many times before all on my own." 

John squares his shoulders, stares him down. 

"Let. Me. Help. You." 

They have some sort of silent argument between them before John pushes him back down on the bed and slides the rag across his face. Sherlock struggles to get away but doesn't have the strength, he gives up and closes his eyes. John pushes the curls back from his face and has to resist the urge to stroke his jawline. 

_Stop it. Get your mind away from that place John._

After about ten minutes of Sherlock trying to lay there angrily, he finally relaxes and drifts off to sleep. John is about to get up when he notices something dark seeping through the charcoal-grey comforter. As he starts to pull it down Sherlock's eyes fly open and he sits up to move his body as far from John as he can. 

"Sherlock, show me. Now."

Sherlock is huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. He looks panicked, his eyes darting around the room.  He's holding his arms between his knees and chest, hiding them from view. 

"I... No. Please leave. Please just leave me be." 

"If you don't show me I'm taking you to the hospital."

He hesitates, but knows John is serious, and that he doesn't have the strength to resist him. John can read it all in his face. He slowly moves forward and holds his arms out to the other man and John takes them into his lap. 

Once one sleeve is rolled up John is horrified by what he finds. On top of rows and rows of white and pink scars are slashes of red. He rolls up the other sleeve and finds the same on his left arm. Many are fading, some still healing, and some are very fresh. Too new to have been inflicted before John arrived at the flat. They're bleeding, and some look as if they were older and had reopened. He tries not to look at the track marks in the crease of his elbows.

"Don't move, let me get a few things and I'll be right back."

He glances at Sherlock. He's never seen him look so ashamed, he's staring down at his feet and let's his arms stay where John sets them on the bed. He looks like there isn't a thing going through that giant brain of his. He looks empty. 

John walks briskly into the the kitchen and starts rifling through the bags Mycroft had delivered. He realizes he should have sorted through them earlier and organized it all. He finds what he needs and goes back to the bedroom. He stops in his tracks as soon as he's through the doorway, Sherlock is gone. 

He's about to panic when he hears something clatter to the floor in the bathroom and Sherlock cursing under his breath. John flies across the room and tries the handle even though he knows it's locked.

"Sherlock! Open the damn door!"

He starts pounding on the door with his fists, gives up and starts trying to break it down with his shoulder. It takes a minute, but the door finally gives and swings open, the wood around the lock splintered and broken. 

The sight he's presented with makes his stomach feel like it's fallen out of him. Sherlock is sitting on the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. He has a rubber tourniquet tied tightly above his elbow and is trying with shaking hands to guide a syringe filled with what must be heroin to the crook of his elbow. John rushes forward and grabs it out of his hand. Sherlock tries to wrangle it back, but is too weak.

John glances at the syringe in his hand, it's practically full to the brim. Even if he wasn't a doctor it was obviously a deadly amount of drugs. He tosses the vile object to the floor and steps on it, shattering it. 

_He knew it was too much, it was on purpose. He was trying to kill him himself. Oh my god. He... I was gone for maybe two minutes!_

Tears start falling down his face as he falls to his knees. Sherlock has his hands in his hair, tugging at it, and is rocking back and forth. His knees are drawn up to his chest again and he's trying to hide his face. John makes a grab for him, unsure what to do. He pries his hands out of his hair and Sherlock tries to push him away.

"No! Just stop! Please, just-"

He chokes on the last word, unable to speak with the sobs starting to wrack through his body. He slumps even farther into the floor, shaking uncontrollably. He's now lying on his side having lost all control of himself, gasping for air as he bawls.

John doesn't know what to do. His heart is beating so fast and he wants nothing more than to fix this broken man lying on the floor. 

_Fuck it._

He kneels down and scoops Sherlock up and into his arms.

_He's so light, he shouldn't weigh this little, I'm going to force feed him later if I have to._

Sherlock doesn't even struggle. He's completely limp and let's John carry him to the bed. John sets him down lightly and goes to get the supplies he had brought into the room. His friend is still a mess, unable to stop the emotion coursing through him. John thinks he's probably held it in for a long time.

_Or he's just never been like this around another person..._

He sits on the bed next to Sherlock and reaches out towards him. He doesn't even try to stop him as John sits with his back to the headboard and pulls the broken man into his arms, holding him from behind. Sherlock settles between his thighs as John cuddles him against his chest.

"Shhh, everything's alright Sherlock. It's okay. I need you to calm down so I can bandage up your arms. Please, just take some deep breaths. I'll make it quick and you can go to sleep." he whispers in his ear, his cheek pressed against the back of Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock gasps for air, trying to obey Johns request as he rocks him gently. After a few minutes he's able to control his breathing a bit better. He's still shaking and tears are still rolling down his face but John just needed him to calm down as much as he could. He carefully unwraps his arms from around him and moves to place his limp body against the headboard, he grabs the bandages and antiseptic and gets to work.

As soon as John is done cleaning and bandaging his wounds Sherlock shrinks back into himself and slumps onto his side. He's stopped crying for the most part and is staring at the wall across from him, the empty look back in his eyes.

_I can't just leave him like this. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I don't know if I can do this._

John takes a deep breath, gets up to turn off the lights and heads back to the bed. He hesitates, not sure how Sherlock will react but gets into the bed anyways and pulls Sherlock back into his arms. He spoons him from behind, wrapping an arm around his middle. Sherlock surprises him by grabbing onto him, clutching John's arm and pulling him closer. 

John sighs and switches their arms so that his is on top and starts rubbing gentle circles into the back of Sherlock's hand. 

He's wanted to do this for what feels like forever, he never imagined it'd be in this particular type of situation but it feels so perfect just the same. It feels right, like he's been waiting his whole life just to hold this man. He's overcome by so many feelings, but most importantly he wants nothing more than to keep his friend safe through the night. At that moment all he wants to do is protect him from harm. He holds Sherlock a bit tighter.

"I'm going to fix this Sherlock, if it's the last thing I do. I'm not leaving you, ever. I can't stand to see you in so much pain. I'm going to get you better, I promise. _I love you._ "


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade stops by 221B for a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, two updates in one day! I think I'm trying to motivate myself to finish this story before S4 can have a chance to alter it. I'm so close to finishing everything!
> 
> This chapter is a bit longer than the previous ones, it's probably the one I'm most proud of and enjoyed writing the best. I wrote it first from Lestrade's POV when I was still drafting this story, then had to put it in John's perspective. Maybe I'll do a spin-off of one-shots if you guys are interested? 
> 
> Again, I'd greatly appreciate any feedback you may have. Were the Mystrade hints too obvious? Leave me some comments! :)
> 
> Trigger warnings: self-harm and drug addiction.

John wakes up before Sherlock does. It's still very early, since the train wreck of the day before happened in the late afternoon they must have fallen asleep around 7 or 8. The sun is just coming up. John takes in his surroundings and finds that Sherlock had rolled over in the night and is now huddled against him, his face pressed into John's chest.  
  
_What am I doing? I'm married and I've been cuddling in bed all night with Sherlock? I TOLD HIM THAT I LOVED HIM. Oh fuck.  
_  
_It doesn't have to mean anything. He's just a friend that needed comfort.  
  
__And Sherlock's... what? Asexual? Aromantic? It's not like I've ever gotten a direct answer.  
  
It doesn't matter. This is wrong, isn't it? But it feels... indescribable. Wonderful? Perfect? Like I've found a missing puzzle piece that's been under my nose the whole time. I shouldn't want this... but I do. God, I am so confused...  
  
_ He stays where he is, not wanting to wake the man beside him. He watches the sun rise through the window and tries to sort through his thoughts and feelings for a while.  
  
_I have enough on my plate right now, I'm being so damn selfish. Sherlock tried to fucking kill himself last night and I'm worrying about my relationship with him. I should be looking into rebab centers or the best mental health experts in the area. Maybe I should call Mycroft today...  
  
_ Sherlock starts to stir and to Johns surprise he snuggles into him further. He wonders if he's aware of what he's doing, or if he's still mostly asleep.  
  
"Stop thinking so loud."  
  
John's heart skips a beat. Now that Sherlock's awake he really does have to deal with this dilemma.  
  
_But wow, how his voice sounds first thing in the morning! Sleepy and hoarse goes well with that sexy baritone of his..._  
  
_STOP STOP STOP WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM?! Jesus, I've completely lost it._  
  
"Um, good morning."  
  
Sherlock doesn't say anything or move a muscle.  
  
"Sherlock... We really need to talk about a few things. You can't keep on ignoring me or telling me to go away, what happened last night was... a bit not good. Very not good actually."  
  
John can't see Sherlock's face but is kind of glad, he feels pretty awkward being in this position with him in a bed now that he's awake. They haven't addressed it at all.  
  
Sherlock surprises him yet again and nuzzles his face into John's chest, wraps his arm around his middle. He sighs.  
  
Suddenly John understands. Sherlock is letting him in, he's given up trying to hold up his emotional barriers.  
  
They've always had an unspoken connection between them, they've known it all along but have never let themselves act on it before. They don't have to talk about it, it's just always there. They live with it every day, make themselves miserable by not acknowledging it. John doesn't feel awkward once this clicks in his mind, he finally gets it.  
  
"I can't do it anymore John. Please don't make me... Let me have this for just a moment longer and you can go."  
  
"What do you mean? Why do you keep telling me to go?"

"They all leave me at some point, it's inevitable. Better to get it over with now."

"Who's they? What are you talking about?"

"Everyone. Any person I let get close enough to see what I really am. They all leave."

John's heart breaks. He pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace.

"I told you before, I'm not leaving. I accept you for everything that you are, you should know that by now."

Sherlock stays silent as if in disbelief, they stay like that for a while until John relaxes his hold on the other man. 

"I need you to be honest with me, when did the cutting start? And the drugs? Why would you do this to yourself?"

Sherlock doesn't answer right away, but eventually opens his eyes, looks up at John and then down again. 

"Age 11, the day before my twelfth birthday. The other boys at school had beaten me and Mummy and Daddy weren't due to come back from a trip for another week. Mycroft was supposed to be looking after me but wasn't home either. I'd experimented with hair pulling and scratching myself before, but that day I found out what a blade could do.

Age 16. I had tried various different legal and illegal substances up until then. A man who had been selling me cocaine shot me up for the first time. I stuck with heroine, morphine, and occasionally cocaine after that.

As for why, I'm not sure myself. Boredom? A way to feel numb? Something to feel again when the numbness was too much? I've been doing both for so long I don't know anymore."

John doesn't know what to say. Sherlock had never told him much about his past and now he knows why.  
  
_No child should feel he has to turn to things like that. That's just... insane._

"So no one was really around to look after you?"

"No, I practically raised myself. There were nannies but they never knew about anything, I made sure of it. They were basically just our housekeepers anyways, I never interacted with them much."

"Sherlock, that's terrible. I thought your parents seemed like decent people... You should have told me earlier."

Sherlock goes silent for a moment.

"I deleted most of it."

John is about to respond when Sherlock interrupts him.

"John I, um, I really don't feel well..."

"What's wrong?"

"Searing headache, extreme nausea, a few trace symptoms of blood loss. I believe it would be best if I headed to the bathroom."

"I don't understand how you can hide so much pain Sherlock." 

Sherlock doesn't miss the double meaning.

John feels such sadness for him as he untangles himself from him. He doesn't want to let go of the man. He guides him to the bathroom, leaves the door open, and then heads towards the kitchen. 

He can hear Sherlock vomiting through the thin walls as he prepares coffee. He doesn't know what to feel after last night or about what Sherlock had just told him.

He wants to know what Sherlock has to say about all the physical contact they just shared. He decides there are more important things at hand and starts making breakfast. He searches for medicine that will help Sherlock in the bags Anthea left.

John peeks his head into the bathroom, finding the other man slumped over the toilet. 

"Sorry, I had to make sure you were okay."

_Or that you weren't trying to harm yourself again._

"I'm afraid you're not going to get much privacy anymore, for the time being I don't feel safe leaving you alone for very long."

Sherlock doesn't move or open his eyes, just nods slightly, "I understand."

"Please work with me on this. I can't help you if you don't want to get better. I can't imagine what you've gone through and are still going through, but please just try Sherlock." The other man opens his eyes and nods again. 

"I'm making breakfast, which you're going to eat. Then you'll take some meds to help insure you don't puke it back up, and some for your headache too. Oh and some vitamins. Sound good?"

Sherlock just grunts.

When John returns Sherlock is sitting up in bed. He makes a face at the plate of food but takes it into his lap anyways, taking very small bites. After he eats about half he shoves it back at John and shakes his head. 

John gives him the pills and gets up when he notices Sherlock start to shake again. He goes up to his old room and comes back with a heating blanket. John tells him to lie down and rest for a bit and goes to try and shower as fast as he can. 

When he steps out of the tub his phone goes off.

**I'm coming over in a bit. I was told by Mycroft that you're in need of some help. Care to tell me what's going on? -Greg**

John is relieved. He was starting to feel so overwhelmed. And Lestrade had mentioned Sherlock's past drug-use before, maybe he knew how to help him. 

**I'll tell you when you get here. -JW**

He putters around the flat while he waits for Lestrade, checking on Sherlock every ten or fifteen minutes. 

He looks awful again. He looks like he has the flu, but worse. Sometimes when John peeks his head in the door he is staring off into nothing, a look on his face like there is a battle raging on inside his mind palace.

When Lestrade knocks at the door he ventures out of the flat for the first time since he had arrived.  He unlocks and opens the door to the street, letting a very confused-looking Lestrade inside. They shake hands. 

"Going to fill me in?"

"Um, I'd invite you up but Sherlock's awake. We can't leave, so I guess we'll have to talk in the hall here for the time being."

Lestrade looks even more confused, but nods. John decides to dive right in.

"Sherlock's back on heroin. I've been trying to help him detox for the past couple days."

Lestrade sputters. "Wh-what the fuck was he thinking? He's been doing so well the past few years! Should we talk to Mycroft about sending him back to rehab?"

"Greg, there's more. He... uh, he tried to commit suicide last night. And he's... self-harming. Not for the first time, either."

"No, definitely not the first time."

John is taken aback, "So that doesn't surprise you? You knew about it? Am I the only one who didn't?"

Lestrade sighs, "John, I've known Sherlock for a long time. Longer than you think. I've been aware of his demons for years. I thought he was so much better, especially after, well..." 

"What?"

"Especially after he met you. It was the happiest I'd ever seen him. He was... different, after you came along. I thought he'd never go back to his old ways after you came into his life."

John stares through him, thinking. 

"How am I supposed to help him?" he whispers. 

A look of understanding comes across Lestrade's face.

" _Oh_ , it's happened, hasn't it? You've finally come to your senses, I can tell just by looking at your face."

"What are you talking about Greg?"

Lestrade leads him by the arm to sit on the stairs. He takes off his gloves and scarf, runs a hand through his hair. 

"You two are idiots. I've known since the first time I saw you together that you loved each other. It's so damn obvious, especially with how long I've known Sherlock. He's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you."

John's ears turn beat red, he has no idea how he's going to respond to that. 

"John, I don't think you know this, but I met Sherlock when he was only about 20. I was nearly 40. He was just a kid, basically homeless. 

I've picked him up off a few floors in my day. I've had to get him to the hospital on multiple occasions, whether it was because of an overdose or major blood loss. I've seen him bleeding out on a dirty mattress in an abandoned warehouse, seen him covered in his own vomit and shit when he's overdosed. 

If anyone really knows Sherlock Holmes and his past, it'd be me, or Mycroft."

John nods, lets him continue.

"Rehabs, relapses, I've seen it all. A fair amount at least. He hasn't really had a slip-up since about a year before he met you."

John tries to take in this information, not sure what to do with it. He doesn't know what to say, so he waits for Lestrade to say something else.

"So, what's happened? Are you leaving Mary? What about the baby?"

"What? No. I-I don't know. Hasn't gotten that far yet. I mean, nothings happened. All we did was... cuddle, if I'm being honest. Neither of us even acknowledged it once it was happening, or after. I was only trying to calm him down after- after he tried to shoot up a lethal amount of drugs..."

"I see, how's he doing at the moment by the way?"

"Not good. He looks terrible, I can't imagine how he must be feeling. Sometimes he looks so empty, like he's turned off a switch in that giant brain of his. Or like there's a war going on in there."

Lestrade stares at the front door, nodding his head up and down.

"Can I ask you something?" John says after they sit there in silence for a moment.

"Shoot."

"No ones ever mentioned -he doesn't seem like the type- I guess what I'm trying to say is has he ever dated anyone?"

The words rush out of John. He's embarrassed as soon as he says them. Lestrade doesn't notice as he starts to feel a bit awkward himself. 

"I think you have a right to know the whole story. Only because Sherlock's probably deleted a lot of it. He should be telling you these things himself, but he probably can't, or won't."

Lestrade looks nervous, he's running a hand through his hair again. John waits. He sighs and continues.

"Sherlock and I were once romantically involved, sort of. It was a long time ago, a while after we met. We became acquainted when Sherlock sought me out to offer his detective skills, to help solve cases. Sherlock was too young and inexperienced to be taken seriously back then, but we kind of became friends. While he gained more experience and credibility, the two of us had regular meetings. 

I found out about his problems eventually, and then, I don't know, I thought maybe if I told him I liked him, that he would know _someone_ cared about him."

He's lowered his voice almost to a whisper, just in case Sherlock is near. John listens intently. 

"We'd always shared a bond, friendship, whatever you want to call it. We get each other. Maybe something similar to what you have with him, but not quite. Far from it actually...

Anyways, one night, I found him cutting up his stomach and sides with a straight-razor. I sat him down and told him that despite his age and his... issues, I cared for him a lot. We kissed, and he walked out after saying how it would never work. That he wasn't ready for a relationship and never would be."

The image of Sherlock and Lestrade kissing keeps replaying through John's head, making him feel something new he'd never felt towards them; jealousy. He tries to push it away knowing it's irrational. 

"We never mentioned it again. We stayed friends, or at least, I continued to "bother" him by saving his life a few more times and then Sherlock started helping out at the yard. From there on we became more like family than an awkward what-could-have-been type of thing, especially after Mycroft-" he stops abruptly.

_After Mycroft what?_

Greg said it without looking at him and seemed to get more awkward once he did. 

_What was that all about?_

"To answer your question, no, Sherlock's never really dated anyone. He's never been capable until about, five years ago I'd say? Whenever you moved in. Admit it, you guys have always been dancing around each other emotionally. Too scared to make the first move."

"I- you're not wrong. It's so complicated, and I'm married now. I've made decisions I can't take back."

"What have you told Mary?"

John realizes that he hasn't spoken to her since that phone call he made when he first found Sherlock. He had barely even thought about her this whole time. He had promised that he'd keep her updated, and he hasn't so far. 

"Nothing, yet."

Lestrade doesn't press him anymore. He gets up, brushing off his coat.

"Well, I guess I need to go up and yell at him a bit. And we need to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid since you came down here."

John springs up, a panicked look on his face. He practically hops up the steps.

_How long have we been talking? I shouldn't have left him alone up there!_

Sherlock is still where he left him, lying in bed going through painful withdrawals. Lestrade barges right in.

"Hey kiddo, what the hell have you done to yourself this time?"

Sherlock groans and dives under the covers.

"Not you again, please get out. Don't you have crimes to solve?"

"Don't you? Okay, here's how it's going to be. You're going to let John help you, you're going to be honest with him and tell him when you feel like you want to use. Or do anything harmful to yourself. It's now his job to distract you while you get better. And you will get better dammit, or else I'm involving your brother. We don't want that do we?"

"Oh, you'd love an excuse to involve him, wouldn't you?"

"Shut up."

"When was the last time he graced you with his presence?"

"Don't make this about me. Mycroft received a box of disturbing items found in your flat and he's concerned. He sent me to check up on things. But I'm also here because I care Sherlock. You have a lot of people who care what happens to you, whether you like it or not. Please, just don't give up this time."

Lestrade leaves the room. He walks past John, who's been standing under the doorframe listening. John follows him back to the living room.

"I have to go, but I'll come visit him again soon."

"I'll walk you out."

They get to the bottom of the stairs and John stops him before he walks out the front door.

"What makes him better? How am I supposed to help him?" he pleads. 

Lestrade sighs, scratches his head. "He needs other distractions, he needs support, and he needs _you_ , John."

John looks away, feeling guilty. Lestrade leaves, and after checking on Sherlock he was sleeping, or pretending to beJohn settles into the sofa with a cup of tea to think for a while. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens up to John and they finally address the elephant in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to get the rest of this story up as fast as I can but I'm just so busy! I've recently started a second job AND a third side-job in my spare time. I've been preoccupied with getting enough sleep so that I don't go insane. I'm working on touching up Chapter 5 to be ready to be posted and am working on the last chapter and epilogue. It should all be done fairly soon!
> 
> Let me know what you think so far in the comments, I'd love some reviews! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Self-harm and drug addiction

Sherlock doesn't speak to John again until well after it gets dark out. He stays in bed to deal with the oncoming waves of nausea and pain. He doesn't complain, just rides it out. 

When night falls, John forces him to eat some more food. He barely swallows down a few bites. As John gets up to wash his plate Sherlock stops him.

"John, wait. I need... something." 

"What is it?"

Sherlock's eyes dart around the room. He's panicking, his hands automatically move up to his head to pull at his hair. John reaches over and pulls them away, he puts a hand under his chin and forces Sherlock look him in the eye.

"Tell me, what do you need?"

" _Drugs_. Please, just let me inject the smallest amount. I promise it'll be barely anything. Just enough to satisfy the craving. Or let me use a blade, anything. _Please_." he begs. 

John closes his eyes for a moment. He's thankful that Sherlock came to him before he did anything stupid.

"Just a moment, I'll be right back."

Sherlock looks at him in disbelief, was John really going to let him use? Or cut?

John comes back and opens the window, hands Sherlock a cigarette and a lighter. He'd requested a few packs in his text to Mycroft knowing they might come in handy. 

"Here, I know it isn't what you want, but it's something. Just don't think I'm going to let you keep smoking forever. And don't tell Mrs. Hudson." 

The genius fumbles with the lighter, trying to light it as fast as he can. When he finally gets it lit he takes a long drag, holding it, and then blowing out towards the window. 

He seems to relax and John mentally pats himself on the back for having found the the smelly distraction. Sherlock leans over to grab an empty teacup to use as a make-shift ashtray and settles back into the pillows. John watches him smoke for a few minutes. 

"You have to tell me where you've hidden the rest of your drugs. And everything you use to self-harm."

Sherlock closes his eyes, takes another drag off the cigarette.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You must, if you use again we're just going to have to start this process all over again."

Sherlock flicks some ash into the teacup and tries to come up with an excuse. He obviously can't find one.

"Alright, but how will you know if I'm lying? I could have loads of heroin and morphine hidden throughout this place."

"Because I trust you, and you'll respect that trust by giving me every last bit of it all." 

The other man doesn't disagree, he just looks up and stares out the window. He pulls his knees up to his chest and sets his chin on his arms. 

"Sherlock... I know it upsets you but you also have to let me see all your injuries. You probably aren't taking care of them properly, knowing you. An infection isn't going to help things."

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. He closes his eyes again and whispers so that John can barely hear him.

"Okay."

Sherlock finishes his cigarette and puts it out in the cup, setting it back on the table. He glances at John, obviously nervous and uncomfortable. He shrugs off his robe, reaches for the hem of his shirt. He hesitates, and then pulls it up and over his head.

John sucks in a breath through his nose, he has to bite his tongue to focus on the task at hand and not the half-undressed detective sitting across from him. 

John reaches for Sherlock's arms, he's trying in vain to cover the bottom half or his torso with them. He lets John take them to examine. 

John is again shocked to see his mutilated skin. He glances at his stomach and ribs where he sees more scaring and healing cuts. They're everywhere, from below his pectoral muscles to the top of his pajama bottoms. They wrap around his sides and stop where he must not have been able to reach. 

"Oh, Sherlock."

He can't help himself, he drops Sherlock's arms to run his fingers along the mans abdomen. 

Sherlock's holding his breath, looking off to the side. Tears are threatening to spill out of his eyes at any moment. 

John's hands wander over his stomach. They wrap around his waist and pull Sherlock into an embrace and he rests his head on John's shoulder. Neither wants to let go. 

"Do you have them anywhere else?"

John would have normally felt awkward asking, but he doesn't care anymore. Feeling embarrassed is the least of his worries now. All he wants is to take care of Sherlock as efficiently as he can. 

"Yes, but there are no recent ones, I promise."

John believes him. And he wants to show Sherlock that he trusts him, so he doesn't press him any further. 

His hands have wandered up Sherlock's back, and he can feel lines of raised scar tissue under his fingers. 

_There's no way he could have reached them. Someone else did this to him._

"What are these from?" he whispers.

Sherlock squirms a bit, obviously uncomfortable. 

"I'll tell you later, it's nothing."

"Okay." John closes his eyes, still stroking his back.

"John?"

"Hm?"

He tenses up, he thinks Sherlock and is about to say something about the fact that they're hugging in bed again, this time one of them shirtless. 

"Can I have another cigarette?"

He relaxes. They'll talk about this another time, it can wait. 

"Sure."

He finishes checking to make sure none of Sherlock's cuts need medical attention and gets up to grab the pack of cigarettes.

_Sorry Mrs. Hudson._

* * *

"Why did you start doing these things to yourself again? Or has it always been happening and I just didn't know?" 

They're laying in bed again, John holding Sherlock from behind like the night before. After he had finished his third cigarette John had taken away the ashtray, turned off the lights, and pulled the covers oven them both. 

"I hadn't used since before I met you. The other stuff... comes and goes. That I haven't quit fully for more than a year. 

I started using morphine again after I faked my death. I couldn't help myself. I had quite a few wounds from my time abroad and I was in so much pain. When I got back to London I was in hiding for a bit, trying to heal before I found you. Morphine helped tremendously."

John is amazed that Sherlock is telling him any of this, but he can't help wondering what would have happened with him and Mary if Sherlock had showed up sooner. 

_Would we still have gotten married? Gotten pregnant? Would I have realized I had these feelings much sooner?  
_

John tries not to think about it and continues to listen.

"When I moved back to Baker Street, and after-" he stops abruptly. 

"After what?" John pulls him closer, breathing in his long neck. Sherlock tries not to react, and fails, arching his neck into John's mouth. John resists the urge to swipe his tongue along the curve of his neck while Sherlock composes himself.

"Nothing... A couple months ago I started smoking again. Chain smoking turned into heroin, and then I started self-harming again when those weren't enough... or when it was too much. I made the mistake of doing too much too quickly, it's why I'm in this mess now."

John just listens as Sherlock finally lets his guard down, watches the walls he's so carefully built crumble to the ground. 

_I'm so damn proud of him. Why couldn't he open up to me before? I mean, I'm currently snuggled up in bed with him. That must be part of it._

"I'm sorry John."

John holds him a bit tighter, breathing into his neck again. Sherlock can't resist turning his head and pressing his jaw against John's lips as he whispers his response. 

"It's alright. I'm here, I'll take care of you now."

John knows Sherlock would just have to turn his head a bit more and their lips would be touching. He wants it so bad, he's never wanted anyone more in his life. 

They stay like that for a moment until John nuzzles his face into the back of his neck. Sherlock turns back and he's asleep after a few minutes.

* * *

A few more days pass and with help Sherlock starts to feel better. John slept in his bed every night, stopping him from relapsing. 

Sherlock surprises him with a box of drug paraphernalia and sharp objects. When John realizes that it must be the last of it all he grabs Sherlock and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.

John gets him to venture out of his bedroom by promising him cigarettes. They spend hours on the sofa, John reading to him and with much arguing Sherlock lets him turn on the tv. 

One afternoon John puts on a program about the solar system, getting a kick out of trying to teach Sherlock about galaxies. They end up turning down the volume almost to mute and watch the screen, naming colors that swirl through the animations of space.

"Chartreuse."

"Indigo. Salmon."

"Mustard."

"Plum."

"Coral."

"Aquamarine." 

John giggles at the simplicity of their entertainment. "Violet."

"Mm." Sherlock closes his eyes, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"What?" 

"Nothing, I just like the word Violet. It would make a great name."

John saves this information for later and continues their game.  
  
"Amethyst."

* * *

They're sitting on the sofa, only one of them watching the tv. John's drinking a cup of tea and Sherlock is lying down with his head in John's lap. He's running his fingers through dark curls with one hand and Sherlock is just about purring.

John looks down and smiles.

_He's always been so cat-like. The way he sleeps and the way he moves around a room. I've always thought it was so adorable, so sexy. God, why did I deny these feeling for so long?_

John's hand travels down the back of his neck to the top of his robe. With the way Sherlock is curled into a ball his t-shirt and robe have bunched around his neck and John can see the beginning of a scar peeking out. He moves his hand down further and runs his fingers along it.

He's about to ask about the scars again when Sherlock starts speaking. 

"I was captured in Serbia, interrogated."

John sets down his tea.

"You said before that you were wounded... that's what you were talking about."

He says it as a statement and not a question but Sherlock nods anyways. 

"Is that all they did to you? Slice up your back?"

"No. They starved me and deprived me of sleep. You'd think that'd be easy for me, but it wasn't. They tied me up and beat me with various tools and objects. Near the end of it Mycroft came to get me. Although, he did take his time and watched them beat me for a couple hours until he stepped in. He wasn't much help, I got myself out of the situation before he _came to my rescue_."

He says the last few words with great sarcasm. 

John isn't amused, he feels sick to his stomach thinking about Sherlock being tortured. He's furious, he wants to hurt whoever did this to him. And Mycroft for letting it happen. 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not important."

John's heart breaks, his anger rises. Sherlock sits up to look at him.

"You can't say things like that Sherlock! What happened to you was fucking terrible. What happens to you is important, _you're_ important. What if they had killed you?"

"Well, they didn't. Everyone thought I was dead then anyways."

John shakes his head, tries to calm himself down. He looks at Sherlock and sees confusion in his eyes. He reaches up and cups his jaw in his hand, stroking his stubble with his thumb. Sherlock is practically sitting in his lap he's so close. 

"Don't you understand? I care about you Sherlock. If you're not safe, or happy, it causes me pain. When I found you in the bathroom the other day it hurt me worse than anything ever has. Besides watching you fall from that rooftop..."

Tears fall from his eyes at the memory of that day. 

Sherlock's eyes are wide, it's obvious he's touched and doesn't know what to say. 

"No ones ever said anything like that to me before. You're absolutely fascinating, John Watson."

John acts on impulse, mustering up the courage to close the small distance between them. He pulls Sherlock's face closer to his gently with the hand he still has on his cheek. They pause for a moment, John's eyes dart down to his lips and back up.

Sherlock's eyes flutter closed. 

John feels such a longing, need, desire for the man as he leans in and kisses him. When their lips first meet he feels as if his mind, or something in the universe is imploding. He's ecstatic that Sherlock is reciprocating, just as enthusiastic as him.

They've waited so long to do this, it's been years since John first dreamed about it. He wishes he knew what Sherlock was thinking.

John's hands wrap around his head and neck, Sherlock grabs onto his waist. They kiss for a moment longer until their lips part and John pulls back slightly. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Sherlock's. 

"Please don't leave me John." Sherlock whispers. 

John sighs.

"I don't want to leave you Sherlock, but I have a wife, and a baby soon too... I haven't worked out how I'm going to make it happen, but I want to move back in, if that's something you want..." he looks away, his ears turning red. 

Sherlock grips onto his waist tighter and pulls him in for another kiss. He uses his height as leverage, reaching one hand up to cup John's neck he pulls him into the most euphoric, passionate kiss he's ever experienced. 

John groans into his mouth and pulls him closer, pushing their chests together. He knew kissing Sherlock would be special, but he didn't know he'd feel so intoxicated and overwhelmed with pure bliss. 

He feels complete, whole. So many things he'd never felt with Mary. 

When they finally break apart he feels dazed.

"I'm going to take that as a yes." he says breathlessly. 

Sherlock smiles and moves to give him some space, reluctantly. 

"I've been waiting to do that for ages."

"How long?" John says.

"Since the first day I met you."

"Me too."

Their gazes are locked on each other, both grinning. John's heart is still beating fast, his chest almost hurts from the intensity of emotion he's experiencing.

"Lestrade was right, we've been acting like idiots. Why the hell did it take us 5 years to realize what we wanted?"

"Oh, I've always known what we wanted. I was just waiting for you to catch up." Sherlock says cheekily. 

John shoves him playfully, and then turns serious after he realizes something. 

"The other day you said that you started harming yourself after you got back to London. That it got worse after something happened... Were you talking about my wedding?"

Sherlock's expression turns serious as well.

"Yes."

The gears are turning in John's head, everything is falling into place.

"I caused this? I caused you enough pain that you'd want to kill yourself?" he says quietly.

"It's not that simple John. I've dealt with addiction and... other things for many years. It wasn't the first time I've tried. But yes, you know I hate to admit it but I have been hurt. I usually delete emotional pain, or keep it in a far back room in my mind palace. But it hurt the most when it seemed like you didn't want me anymore and were moving on."

Sherlock's eyes have changed to the empty expression that John loathes. He hates himself for having been the reason for Sherlock's pain. He pulls Sherlock back into an embrace. 

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. I'll never forgive myself for making you feel that way, I'll never do it again. I promise."

They let go and move back to look into each other's eyes. Sherlock still looks sad, he sighs and presses his forehead to John's. John reaches up to touch his jaw.

"I'm going back to the house tomorrow. I'll sort things out with Mary and I'll be back as soon as I can. Please keep your head up while I'm gone, I can't lose you. Promise me you'll be okay."

"Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary tells John what the plan is before he can get a chance to work it out himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that new episode though. 
> 
> I'm still processing The Six Thatchers. I need to rewatch it like 10 more times at least(this week).
> 
> Since this story was finished for the most part the day before TST aired, I'm going to post it as is. I don't want to offend any Mary fans, but if you're reading Johnlock fanfiction you're probably not one anyways. 
> 
> Everything in this series will be pre-TST and will not be altered by Season 4 canon. After the rest of S4 airs I'm sure there will be plenty for me to write more about. I already have SO many ideas from watching the first episode...
> 
> Again, I'd love some comments! Let me know what you think of this chapter, it's definitely not my favorite and was the toughest to write. I've picked at it so much and I'm still not completely happy with it unfortunately. Hopefully you think it's decent!

When John returns to his and Mary's home he's ready to turn back the moment he steps in the door. Mary is acting strange, she's distant and unusually quiet. John thinks she might suspect what happened over the last week.

_Do I look different? I feel different. I've been riding a roller coaster of emotion for a week, I must look exhausted at the very least._

The entire first day he's back he contemplates telling her. But now that she's in front of him he feels guilty. He _did_ marry this woman and make serious promises to her. That shouldn't be taken lightly. Not to mention she's very pregnant, the baby should be due any day now. 

_What about our child? Will Mary try to get full custody? I haven't thought this through completely... What did I get myself into?_

John tells her the truth, partially. He says that Sherlock was back on drugs and that he was helping him detox. Mary doesn't look too concerned, which is odd. John knew she cared for Sherlock's well-being also and is surprised that she just shrugs it off.

"You're back, so I'm assuming he's all better? That's good then." is all she has to say about the matter.

_Maybe she's angry with me for not calling and keeping her updated? Or maybe her pregnancy hormones are making her grouchy? What the hell is going on..._

John goes back to work. He apologizes to his supervisor for having been gone so long. He had sent an email earlier in the week to tell them he had a family emergency and thankfully they were understanding. 

He texts Sherlock every day to check in on him. He misses the genius so much it's painful. He feels incomplete again, and he keeps finding himself daydreaming about the intense kiss they had shared. Mostly he was constantly worrying about Sherlock. 

When he had said goodbye and was about to leave the flat Sherlock had stopped him. He was shaking as he pulled John into his arms.

"It won't be for forever. I'll be back in no time." he had said. 

It was so hard for him to walk out of that door and not turn around to run back into Sherlock's arms. 

John was so worried that he asked Lestrade to check in on him. Sherlock proceeded to send John text messages telling him that he wasn't in need of a babysitter and would he please dismiss Mycroft's irritating lapdog.

Lestrade kept going to the flat almost every day anyways. He sent John updates, and Sherlock seemed to be doing okay besides the fact that he was still smoking. 

After about a week of Mary avoiding him, stressing over Sherlock and what will happen with his daughter once he leaves, and long days at the clinic, Mary went into labor.

* * *

**Come to St. Bart's. Maternity ward, room 2B. -JW**

Sherlock gets dressed, but not too quickly. He's nervous. Once he shrugs on his belstaff and opens the door he pauses, closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath and heads out.

He catches a cab to the hospital. When he gets there he bypasses the nurses and heads straight to the room. He's had the blueprints of St. Bart's memorized for years, of course. 

The door to their room is open, and John and Mary look up when he approaches. He can't escape. 

Mary is holding a newborn baby girl. Her parents are absolutely beaming, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. John speaks first.

"Her name is Violet."

Sherlock looks at the child and back at John. He's obviously touched, and panicking. 

"Sherlock?"

He visibly calms down and forces his face back into its normal stony expression. Only John notices the gleam in his eyes. 

"She's beautiful John."

* * *

The rest of John's week goes smoothly, surprisingly. They're blessed with a baby that doesn't cry too much or make a fuss. It's not easy, but easier than he thought it would be. He didn't take into account that she'd be raised by a doctor and a nurse, both fairly knowledgeable on infant care.

Sherlock visits once. John doesn't offer for him to hold the baby, not yet. Sherlock seems pretty frightened of her actually. 

They sit in the living room drinking tea and chatting. It's not awkward, but they keep finding themselves becoming silent, lost in each others eyes.

John wants so badly to reach across the sofa and pull him in for a kiss, or even just hold his hand. John thinks about the time they were handcuffed and held hands running down alleyways and hopping fences. He realizes he's been staring at Sherlock's hand, smiling. When he looks up Sherlock is grinning. 

John blushes and tries to start talking about something else but Sherlock cuts him off by reaching over and intertwining their fingers. It's just for a moment, since Mary is just in the other room, but John is grateful for it. He grins like an idiot at Sherlock before they let go. 

Sherlock doesn't stay long, but John was very happy to see him anyways. Every moment he gets to share with the man he greatly cherishes. When he's with Sherlock he feels content. When the detective leaves it takes everything in him not to kiss him goodbye. John watches him walk out the door regretfully. 

Mary is still acting strangely. She's taken to long naps in their room and has left the house a few times without saying where she was going.

_What mother leaves her newborn? We have the most gorgeous, perfect kid and she's being distant? Maybe she has postpartum?_

John's questions are quickly answered when only two weeks after Violet was born Mary corners him in the living room. John had just put the baby to bed and was now trying to relax on the sofa with a book. 

She doesn't hesitate, just gets straight to he point.

"John, I'm leaving you. And Violet. I'm sorry, but the organization that I work for has transferred me to a different, shall we say _task_... I was waiting to give birth before I left."

John is completely stunned. He drops his book and it tumbles to the floor.

"Wh-what?" 

"I married you to get to Sherlock, to get to Magnussen. I never planned to get pregnant. I truly did care for you John, but I also had other motives."

Mary looks determined, and cold.

John is stunned. He doesn't know whether to feel angry or devastated. His temper wins out.

"So you love someone, marry them, have a child with them but that's not important to you? Because of a fucking job, basically. An assassin is not all you are Mary. You're now a mother, whether you like it or not. If you leave her and never come back, that will always be true. She'll grow up without her mother and you'll have to deal with that every day of your life."

Mary refuses to look at him.

John doesn't know why he's so angry, he was planning on leaving her anyways. But finding out that he'd been deceived for over a year by this woman makes him furious.

"And you know what? Maybe she shouldn't be around someone like you. Someone who even _thinks_ about abandoning their child. You disgust me. Just get out, pack your stuff. Even if you decided to stay I'm taking her away from here as soon as I can."

Mary looks up at him, tries to keep her mask up. It cracks a fraction, but she composes herself and heads for the bedroom to pack her things.

"Goodbye John."

* * *

John feels like he can take on the world, there is so much anger coursing through his veins. Yet he feels relieved, he feels so much better knowing Mary's toxicity won't be around his daughter, that she has the chance to have wonderful parents. 

_Wonderful dads._

He's thinking blissful things about her future when he snaps out of it.

_Dads? Sherlock surely wouldn't be interested... We've only kissed, I can't just ask him to raise a child with me. Maybe he won't even want me moving back in when he realizes Violet and I come as a package deal now. I assumed I'd have partial custody and he probably did too._

John gets up and starts pacing around the living room. He's still angry, Mary didn't even say goodbye to Violet before she left. It was late now, and the baby was sound asleep in her crib.

_Why the hell do these things happen to me? What am I going to do? A few weeks ago I was happily married and looking forward to raising my daughter in this house. Now what?_

He stops pacing and takes a deep breath. 

_Well, I can't stay here, that's for sure. This house reeks of bad memories already._

He goes to his bedroom to pack a bag and gathers everything he'll need for the baby. He loads up the carthankfully Mary left it behindand double checks that he hasn't forgotten anything. Last but not least, he goes into the nursery to retrieve Violet.

The infant is sleeping peacefully. John looks down at her pretty face and smiles. He wants the world for this child, he wants to provide unconditional love and a happy life for her. He adores his perfect little girl and hopes Sherlock will too. 

He picks her up gently and places her on the changing table to dress her in a warm onesie and a little hat to match. 

John locks up the house and takes Violet to the car. He buckles her into her car seat, takes one last look at the empty house and gets into the car and backs out of the driveway. 

He's nervous the whole drive to Baker Street. 

_Should I have called first? I probably should have given some type of warning to Sherlock, or even Mrs. Hudson.  
  
_ A few times he almost turns back around. It would take just one simple u-turn and he wouldn't have to face the possibility of rejection he's agonizing over. 

The drive takes longer than it should but eventually they pull up to the flat. He parks and looks up at the windows and sees that there are lights on. Of course Sherlock is still up, doing god knows what. 

He gets out of the car and unlocks the front door, leaving it open so that he can carefully carry Violet inside without having to fumble with his keys one-handedly. He slings the baby bag over his shoulder and heads up the stairs, shutting the front door with his foot as he passes it. 

He takes the stairs slowly and can hear Sherlock's violin get louder the closer he gets. He's playing a sweet, slow lullaby and finishes the tune the exact moment John is about to knock on the door.

He's trying his best not to hop from one foot to the other in anticipation. He holds Violet closer to his chest as he hears approaching footsteps and then the doorknob turning. He holds his breath.

Sherlock opens the door and takes in the sight of John and Violet. John can practically see the gears turning in his head as he deduces the events of his evening. John knows he must look nervous as hell.

Their eyes meet, and Sherlock smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I apologize for the hiatus, I have so much going on! I work two jobs, technically three if you count my side-job I work in my free time. Plus I have personal things(mental health issues), things going on with my living situation, AND THE FACT THAT S4 IS CURRENTLY AIRING AND I'M FREAKING OUT OVER THE FEELS. 
> 
> This chapter is massive compared to the previous ones, probably twice as long as any of them. It's the last one before I post the Epilogue, which is coming soon. Finishing it up at the moment. 
> 
> I kept wanting to write "Rosie" instead of Violet, but as I've said before, most of this fic was written before we found out John's daughters name, so I kept it.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think of this story! Leave me some comments, and enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self-harm

"Hey."

Sherlock's smile grows bigger. "Took you long enough. Get inside and put her down so we can get the rest of your things."

John finally grins back at him. They head inside and to his relief he notices that the cigarette smell is fading.

_He quit... for me? For Violet?_

John makes a bed on the sofa for the baby and they head downstairs to unload the car. Once they get everything inside and John sets up Violet's cot she settles in for the night. 

John is standing over the cot watching her sleep when Sherlock approaches him.

"Are you alright?"

John furrows his brows, "No... I don't know. I just have a lot on my mind."

Sherlock comes closer and wraps his arms around John's middle and hugs him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"Well, I'm glad you're here. I thought I was going to go mad if I had to spend one more minute with Gavin."

John cracks a smile.

"Don't be dramatic, I'm sure he wasn't that bad." he glances at his watch, "How have you been sleeping? What are you doing up this late?"

"Terribly. I missed you, I can't seem to get a good night's sleep without you. And I was working on a case before you got here."

John's heart skips a beat at Sherlock's words. He suddenly feels very warm.

"Anything interesting?"

"No. Lestrade left me some cases to look over but they're all horribly boring and predictable. There's only one I haven't solved yet."

"How's that one going?"

"Oh, it's just a double homicide. It was probably the husband, but he has a decent alibi. I just need to interview the gardener and I'll have the answer."

John smiles again. It feels like how it used to when they lived together years ago, but better. John can't quite get over the fact that Sherlock is holding him, both of them looking over his daughter. His worry and concerns fade away.

He's never been more content.

* * *

John eventually makes a cup of tea, and they go to bed. In the morning, John wakes up early to the sound of Violet's cries. He carefully untangles himself from Sherlock and stumbles his way into the living room. 

All she needs is a new nappy, a bit of milk, and to be comforted back to sleep. John watches her groggily for a moment before he heads back to bed. 

He slips back under the covers and into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock sighs and holds him closer, still seemingly asleep. 

John sleeps for a few more hours and when he wakes up Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. He panics for a moment, he's always been the first one to wake up and thinks there may be something wrong. His anxiety is quieted when he hears Sherlock's voice coming from the living room. 

He gets up, taking the warm sheet with him. Sherlock really does need to use the heater more often, especially since his fragile, newborn daughter is living in the flat now.

He's surprised to find Sherlock fully dressed, lounging on the sofa with Violet resting against his chest. He's reading to her from a chemistry textbook, listing various chemical compounds and telling her what they're useful for. John's heart swells.

When Sherlock finally notices him standing in the room, he looks up at him quizzically.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

John wipes the smug, proud look off his face and heads for the sofa. He folds himself into the corner between Sherlock and the armrest. 

"Just glad you two are getting along." 

He can't seem to stop smiling. Sherlock frowns.

"She was crying, and you were asleep. I had to do something to make it stop, didn't I?"

"Mm, well, thank you. You did good."

He still looks a bit confused, but the corner of his mouth twitches up a bit. John knows how much Sherlock likes being complimented. They sit in silence for a while, John watching him run his fingers along the baby's spine while she rests. 

Eventually, he gets up to make coffee. He gets lost in thought watching the machine slowly filter the liquid into the coffee pot. He wonders if this feeling will last forever, the _god I'm so happy I could die and the man I've been in love with for five years is comforting my child and it's the most splendid and heart wrenching thing I've ever seen_. He's so distracted he doesn't notice Sherlock get up from the sofa, put Violet in her cot, and walk into the kitchen. 

"What's for breakfast?" the detective says.

John startles, but doesn't turn around to face him yet. He smiles wider, processing what Sherlock had just said.

"You're eating again?"

"Well, not usually. But I know you like breakfast, and I'm assuming you're going to make something and force me to eat it anyways. Am I wrong?"

John shakes his head.

"No. But you should really be eating on your own, not only when I'm here."

John turns to face him and his breath hitches in his throat. He discovers Sherlock is wearing one of his typical suits, an expensive looking outfit consisting of black trousers and a navy blue shirt. But not just any shirt, _the_ shirt.

The shirt that Sherlock _must_ know drives John crazy. It fits the detective like a glove, proving that he _had_ been taking care of himself while John was gone. He doesn't look as thin as he did a few weeks ago. 

The top few buttons are undone, and even John can see that he has left one extra button open than usual. 

_Oh he definitely is aware of what that shirt does to me. Every time he's worn it I haven't been able to keep my eyes off him. He's had it for years, and seems to only wear it on special occasions, usually when he's showing off. It's no coincidence he's decided to wear it the first day I've moved back in. And that_ extra button _, jesus. I just got here last night and already I don't think I'm going to be able to keep my hands off him for much longer..._

"You bastard."

Sherlock looks thoroughly confused. 

"Have I done something wrong? What did I say?"

John reaches out and pulls him by the collar flush to his chest. Their faces are a mere inch apart.

"You did that on purpose just to drive me crazy. Or to distract me. I told you last night I had a lot on my mind and that I might not be alright and when I wake up you're reading to my daughter and asking for breakfast and wearing _that shirt_." John practically spits the words at him.

A smirk cracks through Sherlock's mask for a split second. He's amused. 

"And I ask again, have I done something wrong?"

John quickly and smoothly pushes the taller man backwards and against the kitchen table, hovering over him slightly. 

"You drive me fucking bonkers and you know it." he whispers.

Suddenly John's mouth is on his, devouring him. Sherlock melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around John's waist. John moves his hands from his collar to his hair. His fingers weave through dark curls, tugging lightly and earning John an extremely rewarding and arousing moan from the detective.

Time has stopped, seemingly. The kiss turns more frantic as both men grab and pull at each other in an effort to get impossibly closer. John breaks away and pulls at the hair on the back of Sherlock's head, guiding his chin to tilt upwards so that he has access to his neck. He runs his mouth along Sherlock's jaw down to his collarbone and the man goes even more limp under him. 

Sherlock let's go of John's waist and starts unbuttoning his own shirt. John's mouth travels lower, sucking and biting the skin beneath his collarbone before he abruptly stops. 

"Wait, Sherlock... stop." he says, trying to catch his breath as Sherlock gets to the last button and moves his hands up to start taking off John's shirt. He freezes at John's words.

"No, I mean, we should slow down... take our time with this part? We've only just started this... thing between us."

Sherlock looks almost offended.

"We've been waiting for years, why wait any longer?" He scowls.

John understands what he means, but still guides Sherlock's hands away from the hem of his shirt. He touches his cheek tenderly.

"You have no idea how much I want to. How much I've fantasized and dreamed about you... I'm still trying to get used to the fact that I can kiss you, or touch you." Sherlock's face softens from a scowl to an understanding frown. "Let's just eat breakfast, and go from there."

Sherlock still doesn't look happy, but he gives John one more chaste kiss and he buttons his shirt back up.

"What are you making for me?" Sherlock says as John reluctantly turns his attention back to the coffee pot. 

"Mm, whatever you'd like, love."

* * *

For the rest of the day they lounge on the sofa taking turns holding Violet, or each other. 

Sherlock seems very eager to have a new experiment, new data to collect as he caresses and explores just about every part of John's body. He touches his skin ever so softly, running fingers along his eyelashes, fingernails, elbows, kneecaps, everywhere but his groin since John had taken that off the table for now. 

He pushes up his shirt, mapping out every rib and muscle and running his hands along his nipples before he finds the scar from his bullet wound. John shivers, by now he's on his back on the sofa and Sherlock is straddling his thighs. He lowers his head and presses a kiss to the scar, feeling John's pulse at his crook of his elbow at the same time. John whimpers at the sensation.

"Shit. Sherlock, what did I just say this morning?"

"Mmm, I forgot." Sherlock says, his mouth still pressed to John's bare chest.

John gently moves them into sitting positions and adjusts his shirt. Sherlock pouts. 

"My turn?" John smirks and raises an eyebrow at the other man.

Sherlock looks a bit nervous now. He nods, giving John permission. 

The army doctor smiles at him reassuringly and starts to run his hands along him like Sherlock did him. His hands slide up his thighs, torso, neck. His fingers brush along his lips, nose, ears, and he can't help but slide them into Sherlock's curls once again. The detective closes his eyes.

_God, I never thought I'd get to do this. He's magnificent, the most gorgeous thing I've ever laid eyes on. And now I get to touch him? What is going on? The walls could be falling down right now and I wouldn't notice._

He picks up Sherlock's left hand, runs his mouth along his long fingers and palm. He starts to unbutton the cuff of his shirt and Sherlock's eyes fly open. He freezes. John pauses seeing the terrified look in Sherlock's eyes. 

"It's alright love, I've got you."

Sherlock's expression softens but he still looks uneasy as John slides his sleeve up. John traces his scars with his fingertips, examining them more closely than he did the first time he saw them. The worst of them are thick, white scars near the inside of his wrist.  
  
_He told me a few weeks ago that it wasn't the first time he had tried to kill himself..._

He brings his arm up to his lips and places a kiss on the scars. Sherlock sucks in a breath. He can feel his pulse beating quickly under his lips.

He moves farther down his arm and does the same to the variation of healed wounds. There are so many, John is saddened that his friend had gone through so much pain. 

_He tells the world he's a sociopath, and people believe him. Meanwhile he was struggling with his own personal torment and a different kind of mental illness. He tried to destroy himself on a regular basis with blades and syringes. He sliced open his beautiful alabaster skin when everything was too overwhelming. The drugs, his past, the emotions that go along with having a giant brain that nobody understands... Besides Lestrade, nobody had cared enough to find out._

John kisses his arm once more before he kisses him on the mouth. Sherlock's fingernails dig into John's side and he eagerly reciprocates. The shorter man places his arm back in his lap and unbuttons Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock lets him. 

He sets his forehead against the other mans and tries to tell him with his eyes _trust me_ as he slides the shirt off his shoulders. 

Sherlock lays back and closes his eyes, too ashamed to look at him. John strokes the scars on his stomach and sides slowly. He bends his head and presses his mouth to the worst of them.

"You're not disgusted? They're hideous, I know how I must look."

John lifts his head to look him in the eye.

"God Sherlock, how can you say that? You're beautiful, absolutely breathtaking... I adore every part of you, and these scars are a part of you too. I hate the thought of you harming yourself but they're proof that you've survived what you've been through. They're not hideous, nothing about you is hideous."

He kisses a scar on his hip and moves up to kiss his jaw. Sherlock grabs his face and mashes their lips together, but John notices that he's shaking and pulls back.

"What is it, Sh-"

"John... I love you too." Sherlock whispers, interrupting him.

John's heart beats wildly in his chest, he can't seem to breathe. 

Deep down he knew it already, but it's the first time Sherlock's said it aloud. He'd said it vaguely at the wedding, but not like this, or in this context. Neither of them had even acknowledged that John had told him that he loved him the night he tried to kill himself. John wasn't sure if he was even listening due to the fact he was having a mental breakdown at the time. Until now.

He has no words, has no idea how to respond other than crushing their lips together in mind-blowing, life-altering, passionate kiss. 

Today they had shared more intimacy than they ever had before, and it was exhilarating and overwhelming and exemplary. John could die happy after this one day with Sherlock, but he hopes for so many more.

* * *

Weeks pass, they spend their days enjoying the bliss of being in love. They take care of Violet, Sherlock becoming a much more prominent role in her care than John thought he would be. 

Violet is quickly becoming a handful, needing more and more attention each day. She's no longer just an eating, sleeping, pooping machine and John is so proud to watch her grow into an actual little human being with emotions. She laughs, smiles, cries, gets angry when Sherlock walks out of a room. 

John has started to become a bit jealous. His daughter seems to enjoy Sherlock's company more than his own. John tells himself it's because of his deep, soothing voice and the fact that he has longer arms for which to wrap around her. At the end of the day he doesn't mind, he's content with how things are going.

They have sex, quite often. They go out to dinner like they used to, but now John calls these outings "dates". John returns to the clinic after his maternity leave period is up. Sherlock starts taking cases again, John tags along when he can. 

But after a few months into their new relationship John begins to worry. Sherlock leaves the flat more often, or spends time alone in their room, he becomes less interested in making love and being intimate. 

_Is he growing bored of me? What's going on in that ginormous cranium of his? I wish he'd tell me._

John doesn't bring up his thoughts to him, if Sherlock needs alone time he'll let him have it. But distancing their emotions and miscommunication is dangerous for a relationship, John knows that. 

He comes home from work one evening to a seemingly empty flat. All is quiet as he puts Violet in her playpen with some wooden blocks and her favorite stuffed animal, a bumblebee she's named "BB" since it's one of the only sounds she's been able to babble out so far. John can't wait for the day she learns to say "dada" or even "daddy". 

He sets his work bag on the coffee table and is heading to the kitchen to make tea when he hears his name being said from the doorway of the bedroom. He startles, turns to see Sherlock standing there.

The detective is slouched against the door frame, looking at the floor. John quickly approaches him, setting one hand on his arm and the other under his chin. He urges the man to look at him.

His eyes are bloodshot and there are tears running down his face. He's paler than usual, and trembling. John is immediately concerned. 

"Sherlock, what's happened? What's wrong?"

The dreaded empty look is back in his eyes, practically staring straight through John. 

"I'm so sorry John. So sorry... I did something stupid."

John has to take a deep breath and calm himself down. He gathers the detective in his arms and holds on tightly.

"Tell me, I'm sure everything will be fine."

Sherlock stays silent for a moment, resting his head on John's shoulder. Then he lifts his head and pushes John away from him slowly. He looks at the floor again as he slides up the sleeves of his robe. 

John sucks in a breath. There are new, long, thick slices along his forearms. There are at least ten of them, three or four of them bleeding steadily. The blood drips down his hands to the floor. John looks down and discovers a small pool of it. 

"Please, forgive me." Sherlock pleads. 

The army doctor propels into action, dragging Sherlock to the bed and forcing him to perch on the edge of it. He grabs a couple t-shirts from the dresser and ties them around his arms. He places a hand on Sherlock's cheek. 

"Stay put, I'll be back in moment."

He speed walks into the kitchen, glancing at the playpen to check that Violet is okay and retrieves the first aid kit from under the sink and a large bowl from the cupboard.

He hurries back to the bedroom and is grateful that Sherlock hasn't moved. He's just staring down at his blood-covered hands facing palm up in his lap. John sets down the kit and makes a detour to the bathroom to fill the bowl with water and returns.

He gets the bleeding to stop and sets to work on the cuts that need stitches. It takes a while, and they stay silent the entire time. Every so often a tear falls into Sherlock's lap. John cleans all the blood off his skin and bandages his wounds. After he's finished he reaches up and holds Sherlock's face in his hands, looking him in the eye. 

"What happened, love? What's going on with you, with us? Talk to me, please."

Sherlock tries to avoid eye contact but fails in his current position.

"You must leave me, you have to. You know you do." he whispers. 

John flinches, his heart feels like it's breaking in half.

"Wh-what do you mean? Why would I do that? Elaborate, please."

More tears slip from Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not a decent person, John. You've seen on multiple occasions what I'm capable of. How could you want me? And Violet... she's growing attached to me. I-I'm not worthy to be in her life, I'm not good enough. I'm so far from perfect, and that's what you and Violet deserve."

John wants to slap him across the face and console him at the same time.

"Don't you dare say that. You're everything we need, and our daughter recognizes that. She loves you, and you love her, I can tell. You make it seem like I'm perfect and I'm not. We're going to make mistakes, it's inevitable. But I wouldn't ask for anyone else to be by my side."

"It's not a decision you should take lightly."

"I'm not, I haven't."

"What if I start using again? Or take up a blade again like I did today? I can't hurt you any more John, it will destroy me. But I'm a goddamn moron and there's no guarantee I won't."

John wipes a tear from the mans eye.

"Like I said, we're going to make mistakes. Nobody's perfect, but I'll be with you through all of it. Just don't hide your feelings from me again, I've told you before, I accept and adore every part of you. The good bits and the not so good. Never hesitate or be afraid to tell me things, I'll always be here for you."

He presses his lips to Sherlock's temple. They stay like that for a minute or two. 

"You are." Sherlock says quietly. 

"Hm?"

"Perfect. You're absolutely perfect in every sense."

John pulls back and smirks at him.

"Maybe for you, yeah."

Sherlock smiles, his eyes light up behind the tears. 

"Did you say "our daughter" a few minutes ago?"

John let's go of his face, dries Sherlock's face with his sleeve.

"Did I? Must have slipped out." He grins at him cheekily. "Actually, I've been secretly trying to teach her to call you "papa", no luck so far though. Would you be okay with that?"

Sherlock pulls John into his lap and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head against his chest and closing his eyes.

"Yes, that would be more than okay. It would be an honor."

* * *

John's kneeling on the floor of their bedroom, a toolbox beside him. Against the wall by the window lies the old door to the bathroom with its splintered lock and crack down the middle from John's shoulder. He hears the front door to the flat open. 

While Sherlock was meeting with Lestrade at the Yard for some case or other, he had made a few phone calls and had a new door delivered. He had just installed it to the door frame and was working on screwing in the handle when Sherlock walks in.

"What are you doing?"

John doesn't turn around and keeps fiddling with the screws. 

"Bloody great detective you are, I'm installing our new door. I broke the old one if you remember. Been meaning to replace it for ages."

"But... that one has a working lock on it."

"And?"

Sherlock pauses for so long John thinks he might have left the room. 

"What if I locked myself in there again? You're just going to break it all over again." he says, finally.

John twists his body to look at him. The taller man is standing there in his belstaff, looking very confused and uncertain of this new project John's taken on.

"I trust you."

Sherlock looks at him, surprised.

"If you feel like hurting yourself, or using, you'll come to me first. And if you slip up, you'll come to me then, too. I believe that wholeheartedly."

Sherlock says nothing. He stares at John for another minute and walks out. John shakes his head, turns his attention back to the door.

He hears Sherlock's footsteps behind him a minute later, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the thunderous sound of multiple pieces of metal clatter to the floor next to him. 

Daggers. Probably at least fifty of them in varying styles and designs in a heap on the floor. John recognizes some from the night he returned to Baker Street, the night the flat was a disastrous mess. Sherlock had removed the ones from the kitchen table and the desk in John's old room to a different location. John had never asked about them. He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. 

"When I was a child Mycroft gave me a book of fairytales. I liked the stories involving daggers and I've been quietly obsessed with them since. This is my collection from over the years. I never did find the right one."

John doesn't understand, he stares open-mouthed at Sherlock.

"The right one?"

"I was planning on using the most ideal one, my most favorite, to kill myself with. I never came across one I thought was worthy enough. Turns out I would never find it. I found you instead."

John stands up. He walks towards his lover, his partner, his everything. He places his hands on his arms.

"Why are you telling me this? Why did you just throw them into a pile on the floor?"

Sherlock sighs, looks at the daggers and then back at John.

"I don't need them anymore. Do with them what you'd like. You said you trust me. You trust me with my future and I'm trusting you to dispose of my past. I'm assuming you'll toss them out."

John can tell how important this is to Sherlock, that this is some kind of significant turning point for him. 

"No. We're keeping them, I'll display them on the mantle or put them in a fancy glass case. They remind me of your scars... evidence of how strong you are, that you're still alive and well and _mine_."

Sherlock's making an odd face, a mixture of confusion and surprise and adoration. John is about to tell him it's alright if they _do_ throw them out when Sherlock is suddenly kissing him, fiercely. 

John's hands slip under the belstaff and around his waist and it feels like it did the first time they had slept in the same bed together. Sherlock feels like the missing puzzle piece, he feels like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter, I really enjoyed writing it. Almost wanted to end the fic here! Sorry to anyone hoping for a Johnlock sex scene, I can promise you that I'm working on a smutty one-shot to go along with this series and will post it eventually. Oh and some flashback scenes that I want to start writing too! Anyone even interested?
> 
> P.S. You finally got to read the part where the fic title comes from! It's also a song from Next To Normal and my inspiration for parts of this story.
> 
> Oh, and I'm back on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stavromulabetaaa) if you want to know more about me or like reblogs about Sherlock, Potter, or queer stuff. I haven't had a tumblr since high school, but I've been trying to learn how to use this site again lately!


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